


Stoned Free

by zemph147



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack Fic, M/M, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zemph147/pseuds/zemph147
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home and finds Sherlock and Moriarty are smoking pot together. Super cracky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stoned Free

**Author's Note:**

> This is crack crack crackity crack.
> 
> For this post on the kink meme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113757594#t113757594

John hadn't smelled it since his uni days, but it didn't make it any less recognizable. It occurred to him that it might be Mrs. Hudson, indulging a little in her old age. But as he went up the stairs, the smell only grew stronger, and John began to worry about the state of the flat. Of all the people he knew that might be high in his home right now, none of them he trusted worth a damn in their intoxicated state. 

His worst fears were confirmed when he saw Jim Moriarty sitting in John's armchair, face still as stone and eyes blood red. His mouth was a thin, firm line. Sherlock sat across from Moriarty in his own chair, his gaze locked with Moriarty's, mouth in a similar expression of deadly seriousness.

“What the hell is going on here?” John asked, dropping his shopping on the floor with a clatter.

Sherlock only held up a single finger, signaling John to wait.

“Are you insane? Do you know what it smells like in here? Can you imagine Lestrade coming by here and not only succeeding in his drugs bust but capturing a known terrorist as well?”

Sherlock's face remained frozen, but Moriarty let out a snort. John looked to him and saw him pressing his lips together, smile beginning to play at the corners of his eyes.

“I can't believe this,” John said, throwing his hands up in the air. “It's like I live with the world's most irresponsible 15-year-old boy.”

Moriarty burst out laughing, a loud, joyous noise that descended into pitchy giggles. Sherlock jumped up, throwing his arms in the air victoriously. 

“Bless you, John,” Sherlock said. He grabbed the sides of John's face and pulled him in for a hard kiss. 

“You have made me the victor, and I will collect all the spoils. All of them!” he shouted at Moriarty, pointing accusingly, which only sent Moriarty into another fit of tittering.

“I'm sorry, are you both stoned? Am I actually living in a madhouse?” John asked.

“Did you bring food?” Sherlock said, going over to the bags John dropped and sorting through them. Then he stood, revelation plastered to his face.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Oh! John, John! Can you make us brownies?”

Moriarty fell out of his chair laughing.

“No, no I'm sorry. I'm not going to make my mad stoned flatmate and his new best friend, the man who tried to kill me, brownies.”

“Please, John,” Sherlock said, approximating a pathetic, starving creature fairly well. “Please.”

“Please, John, please!” Moriarty echoed in a squeak from where he now lay on the floor. “Shower us with your baked deliciousness.” He sat up, voice dropping. “If you make the chocolate, we'll lick it off you.”

Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes, nodding furiously.

“Right,” John said. “I'm going to call your brother.”

It took Sherlock a moment to register exactly what John had said.

“No!” Sherlock cried. 

Moriarty was up off the ground like a shot. He darted over to where John and Sherlock stood and leaped onto Sherlock's back. Sherlock, despite lacking experience with small children prone to such actions, grabbed Moriarty's legs and took him into piggy-back formation like a professional.

“Don't call daddy,” Moriarty said. 

“Yeah, well, this is what you get for being total imbeciles,” John said. 

But as soon as he pulled the phone out of his pocket and started to dial, Sherlock snatched it from his hands and passed it up to Moriarty, who dangled it a half foot above where John could reach.

“Give it back,” John deadpanned, becoming increasingly not in the mood.

“Never!” Moriarty yelled, clutching the phone and holding it like the Olympic torch, high above his head.

John weighed his options.

“If you give it back to me, I promise not to call Mycroft,” John said.

“Should I trust him?” Moriarty whispered in Sherlock's ear loud enough that the neighbors could probably hear it.

“Let's drop it in the toilet,” Sherlock whispered back, equally audible.

“Wait, wait,” John said as the two men started towards the loo. “If you give it back to me, I'll make you brownies.”

John had never seen them look so ravenous for anything but dead bodies. 

“Promise?” Moriarty said, sounding like a six-year-old girl.

“Yeah, yeah, I promise. Just don't flush my phone,” John said. 

Moriarty tossed him the phone, and John pocketed it. He would call Mycroft later, when the two mad men weren't poised to torture John for tattling.

“I want to go for a horsey ride,” Moriarty told Sherlock, bouncing on his back eagerly.

“No. Fuck no. I'm not your plaything,” Sherlock said, releasing his grip on Moriarty's legs. But Moriarty held on, legs locked around Sherlock's waist.

“I'll beat you with the riding crop,” Moriarty said.

John could see Sherlock considering this proposal. 

“Right, I'm going back to the shops for cocoa. If I come back and you've burned the place down, everyone is going to get a beating from the riding crop,” John said.

Sherlock burst out laughing, but John wasn't sure why. He just turned and left, glad for an excuse to temporarily leave.

But when John returned, cocoa and more butter in hand, he regretted leaving the two men unsupervised. Another joint was lit, burning slowly in an ashtray. But Sherlock and Moriarty were preoccupied with each other on the couch. Sherlock straddled Moriarty, tongue deep in his mouth, while Moriarty had managed to slip his hand into Sherlock's trousers without unfastening them.

“Oi! Stop that!” John shouted. Sherlock and Moriarty fell apart, the former looking more guilty than the latter.

“Hi, John,” Moriarty said.

“Hi, John,” Sherlock mimicked. “Do you want a hit?”

Apparently John's reaction face to that question was hysterical, as both men burst into a cackling fit. Sherlock nearly toppled off the couch.

“Right,” John said. “No more touching, okay? That's all we need at the end of this is a big mountain of sexual regret.”

John picked up the groceries and gathered the ingredients he needed in the kitchen. When he poked his head into the living room again, Moriarty had moved over next to Sherlock and was whispering in his ear and stroking his thigh.

“Hey! If you can't keep your hands off of one another, you might as well come in here and help.”

Moriarty and Sherlock flashed grins that made John's blood run cold.

“Here, you mix this,” John said, handing Moriarty a bowl of dry ingredients. “And you mix this,” he said, passing Sherlock the wet ones.

They stirred dutifully while John added things here and there to their respective bowls. There was some whispering and snickering, though they always managed to look innocent when John glared at them. Finally, they mixed the two bowls and John took over stirring, until the thick, chocolaty batter was almost reading for baking.

When John wasn't looking, Sherlock darted into the living room and fetched the joint, and before John knew it, they were taking hits again.

“Hey, c'mon. You're blazed enough,” John said. But he didn't try to stop them, instead resigned to focusing on getting the last of the lumps out of the batter.

“I want a lick,” Sherlock said right into John's ear, voice deeper than usual.

“If you eat it all now, there won't be any to bake,” John said.

“Please,” Sherlock murmured, pressing his body gently against John's.

“Fine,” John said, passing over the coated spoon. 

Sherlock took a long, seductive lick, eyes never leaving John's. Then Moriarty was behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the taller man, speaking into his ear.

“I want a taste,” Moriarty said. Sherlock turned, remnants of brownie batter across his lips, and sunk into a deep kiss with the smaller man.

John was frozen for a second, lost in watching Moriarty lick chocolate from the inside of Sherlock's mouth.

“Hey,” John said, though it was a softer protest than before.

Sherlock pulled away, taking another long lick off the spoon. Then he gazed at John heatedly. 

“Wait,” John tried, but then Sherlock was kissing him, forcing his brownie flavored tongue into John's mouth. John couldn't help but fall into the kiss, weak to his long ignored desire for Sherlock. 

When he pulled away, Moriarty was there between them, fresh joint in hand. He offered it to John with a smile.

“Fuckers,” John said, taking the joint with an eye roll. He lit it up and took a deep hit.

And almost immediately he started to cough.

“Fuck,” he choked out, trying desperately to bring air into his lungs without much success. 

Moriarty slapped him on the back several times, harder than was probably necessary.

“Coughing is good. Helps it really get into your lungs,” Moriarty said.

“I do not think that is scientifically sound at all,” Sherlock said.

“Fuck you, I read it on the internet,” Moriarty replied.

“God damn,” John heaved. “I know it's been a while...but that is some strong shit.”

“I know all the best people,” Moriarty cooed. “Again?”

John looked back and forth between their two expectant smiling faces.

“You're both such arseholes,” John said. But he took another hit, coughing all the way.

Twenty minutes later, they sat beneath the kitchen table, Sherlock painting John's face with the brownie batter in preparation for tribal warfare.

“I don't understand,” John whispered. “Who are we fighting?”

“Mrs. Turner's married ones,” Sherlock said. “They think they can out-gay us because they're tidy.”

“But we're not gay,” John said.

Moriarty slid into their makeshift bunker, hands covered in chocolate.

“Okay, I painted cocks on all the doors. Also, Sherlock, that chemical formula you're working on, on the chalkboard, in your room, it's wrong, I fixed it,” Moriarty said, breathing heavily.

“Good man,” Sherlock said. “Wait, what chalkboard?”

“Doesn't matter,” Moriarty said. “What's the next plan of attack?”

“I've got it!” John shouted, trying to stand up abruptly and hitting his head on the bottom of the table. Sherlock and Moriarty giggled like teenage girls.

“Okay, I have no idea what I was going to say,” John said, rubbing his head.

But then he caught sight of Moriarty's chocolate covered fingers and a singular desire dominated his brain. He grabbed Moriarty's hands and quickly sucked his forefinger and middle finger into his mouth. John caressed Moriarty's fingers with his tongue and dipped down to clean out the webbing, clearing every last bit of brownie batter from the smaller man's hand.

When he pulled off, satisfied with his chocolate experience, Moriarty and Sherlock wore matching expressions. Their mouths hung open, surprise and lust lurked behind their wide eyes.

“Fuck man, you want the other hand?” Moriarty said. 

“Wait,” Sherlock said. He swiped his finger through the bowl and came up with a good sized blob, and offered it to John. John paused, briefly wondering how things had come to this, but then he could smell the brownie batter. He took Sherlock's finger into his mouth and sucked it clean.

Before he knew it, Sherlock kissed him to the ground.

The rest of the night occurred in bits and pieces.

There was some rutting against Sherlock's thigh, Sherlock and Moriarty wrestling over who got to feed John chocolate, a contest for best spit bubble, a panty raid of Mrs. Turner's married ones, a fierce debate involving some very eloquent speech writing over whether or not to eat the thing in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, John's cock in someone's mouth, someone's cock in John's mouth, a lot of making out, and finally lying on the floor and sharing a cigarette before drifting off to sleep.

John woke up sprawled on the living room floor with an ache in his shoulder and a desperate need to piss. Sherlock and Moriarty spooned on the floor together, Moriarty trying futilely in his sleep to be the bigger spoon despite his obvious size disadvantage. John just rolled his eyes and went to the bathroom.

“Oh bloody hell,” John said when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Sherlock had drawn cocks on his face in brownie batter. 

“Okay, next time I really will call Mycroft,” John announced to a drowsy Sherlock and Moriarty.

“I really wish you wouldn't,” Sherlock said, rubbing his forehead. 

“Well, I clearly have no control when it comes to making you act like adults so—“

“No, you don't understand,” Moriarty said groggily.

“We had to stop getting high with him,” Sherlock said.

“He gets the munchies like you wouldn't believe.”


End file.
